


Those Little Flashes (Wreck Havoc on the Mind)

by leavemetothewolves



Series: Peterick Drabbles [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Soul Punk - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mute!Pete, soul punk!patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavemetothewolves/pseuds/leavemetothewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People thought life as a celebrity meant freedom, but in reality it was hell. Magazine covers were just a destination for wasted time and fading life source, a sense of rebellious instinct that slowly regresses with every flash of the camera.</p><p>Or, Patrick meets a mute Pete in the tiny, cold bathroom of a club he forgets the name of. Using a slip of paper with a long forgotten phone number on it and a pen, they have a rather interesting conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make a Wish, Toss a Penny to the Moon for Luck

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was intended as one big oneshot but I got impatient and decided it post it as a twoshot.
> 
> I actually wrote the foundation of this (the clean, not gay version) for a creative writing assignment for school. But it was so obviously Peterick I reused and recycled. My mum would be proud. 
> 
> Yes I am the sort of trash that throws in a TAASIGAR reference. 
> 
> I had to explain what canon in fangirl terms was today.
> 
> It was horrible.
> 
> Song title from Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers) by the amazingness that is Patrick Stump

“Patrick, there’s nothing that I can do about it.” Joe’s sounding angry now, his voice coming through the phone with a snap. 

You know you sound like a child, but honestly, you don’t really fucking care. Okay, okay, maybe you do, you really can’t help it, but Joe knows how much you hate these parties, he knows and it’s not his fault, but honestly life in so unfuckingfair. 

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” you hear Joe’s voice come through the phone again, and his voice has taken on his Mom Tone (as Andy calls it); a soft, but in a you-have-to-do-this-and-there’s-no-way-you’re-getting-out-of-it way. “But you have to go, you’re on the list, but you’re allowed to leave after the first half an hour, if you want to.”

People thought life as a celebrity meant freedom, but in reality it was hell. A special type of hell that specialized in the torture of the talented people. Magazine covers were just a destination for wasted time and fading life source, a sense of rebellious instinct that slowly regresses with every flash of the camera. Go to this party, and this gala, smile, Patrick, you’re happy, smile, damnit!

You sigh into the phone, reluctantly telling him that yes, you will go, but only for half an hour. Any longer and you’d probably blow your brains out. Only as Joe laughs warmly into the phone do you realize you’ve said that out loud. 

“I know, Patrick.” His voice takes on a bit of a sad tone here. “I know.” 

...

You pick nervously at the sleeves of the soft black cardigan. You make eye contact with your driver in the mirror and you smile quickly. Always in control. Always confident. 

You hold onto these words as the dark tinted windows fill with camera flashes. You squeeze your eyes for a moment, blocking out all the noise. You’re Dorothy and you’re frantically clicking your heels. Always in control. Always confident. Always.

You step out the car door, shielding your face as the flashes that are no longer dulled by the tinted windows bounce off of your glasses. Always confident, always in control. You make your way to the entrance to the club, the sound starting to make itself known to your ears, the heavy thudding of yet another popular song constructed primarily with the use of a computer. You manage to focus on the sound of your thudding heartbeat and keep your face a level above neutral. Some of the pictures might even have a small smile, a quirk in the left side of his mouth. With that thought, you pass through the doors and immerse yourself into the battleground that happens to be your life these days. 

And, honestly, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. The lights, the scandal, the blinding flashes of the cameras. It’s all old news, hidden in the lines of text in crumpled newspapers that are outdated and faded, left to degrade on the floor. You search the crowd before you fruitlessly; the pungent swirls of cigarette smoke obscuring your sight. The faces that pass are familiar but unknown, fake and smiling. The pretty shields that they hide behind in the war that is the dance floor, remiss of their troubles for a single night. But this isn’t a party- it’s an arms race. It’s a war, a battle, whose opponent was lost behind glossy magazine pages a long time ago. It’s a battle that no one wins and everyone loses, one that rages beneath fancy clothing and premeditated drama. 

There’s an urgency in the room, a tension that grates between your teeth and vibrates in your skull. The need to attain greatness; to be noticed and liked and adored - the fifteen seconds of fame that everyone craves. You used to savor that. Loved the feel of attention affiliated with the gaze of everyone in the room. You used to think that they were the prey, that they were the ones being hunted. You used to think you were invulnerable; invincible. How could you have been so blind? If this was the wild, you’d be the tiny, frightened rabbit in the middle of the clearing, shivering; their yellow eyes staring out at you from the shadows. 

You decide to embark on another forcedly casual walk around the room, flashing winning smiles at the girls who suppress giggles behind manicured hands and fake lashes and lips and sparkles. You bump into a man with a suit jacket on- honestly, why isn’t he dying in this heat?- and he brandishes his drink as he turns to yell at you, spilling a few drops of the red liquid onto your shirt. He stops short, paling rather quickly as he recognizes your face. You push past his stammered apologies, and exit the conversation quickly before he can manage a sentence properly, or worse, ask to make it up to you. That would lead to lunch or dinner or a drink, which in turn would lead to a business endeavor, and your opinion of the world would yet again crash into the dirt. 

The bathrooms are all the way across the room, and it’s just your lucky day today, isn’t it? You scrub at the red on your shirt with no avail, and struggle your way through the crowd. Gentlemen make facile compliments to the beautiful women on their arms; sugary sweet nothings for affections that last five minutes. 

You push open the washroom door, welcoming the solace of peace and quiet and the indomitable stench of cleaning chemical that tries and fails to hide the smell of humidity and mold. You fumble with the rusty tap handle, and it squeaks slightly as it turns. The water gushes viciously out of the tap, and you make a cup with your hands before splashing it into your face. You look up into the mirror, speckled with dots and smudges, and jump when you see someone behind you. 

You turn quickly, hands on the rusty white sink and think that maybe this would be the way to die, in a cold, tiny room at the back of a club you can’t remember the name of. You might even get a bit of an internal chuckle as you imagine whoever does such a horrid job of cleaning the place finding you as dead as a doorknob on the bathroom tiling at the early hours of the morning. 

But that’s not what happens. He stares at you for a few moments, before smiling welcomingly. The man has a simple t-shirt on, and his forearms are swamped in tattoos. Something that looks like a clichéd thorn necklace sneaks out from under the neckline. You feel a sorry for him as you shiver in the chilly air, even with the cardigan you have on. It’s November, though you’d never know it with the length of some of the skirts you saw in the other room. The man is short, though probably not shorter than you. To be perfectly honest, no one is shorter than you. He has black hair and outlined eyes. He’s rough around the edges, a welcome change from the sharp angles and masks of makeup that he’s seen so far tonight. It doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer, though, you remind yourself, as you edge towards the door. The man offers a small, apologetic smile, and seats himself beneath one of the few sinks that line the wall, adjusting his head so he can lean it next to one of the pipes and closes his eyes. 

“That’s it, then?” You ask. “Not going to bother tell me who you are?” The man shakes his head.

“Why not?” He gestures towards his throat. He looks up at you with something that looks like frustration, and then situates his hands so one palm is flat and the other is making odd sorts of patterns on it. 

And then it hits you, and you instantly recoil. “You can’t tell me, can you?” Your voice sounds small among the sinks and the stalls. The man throws a bitter smile your way, pulling his knees to his chest.

The minutes tick by, and the silence widens, but it’s not unpleasant. There’s no need for you to hold up the conversation, there’s no record deal or some officious gossip rag’s front page entry counting on your ability to keep up the conversation. There’s just the hum of the pipes and the occasional drip of the faucet. You place your back against the wall and slide down the bathroom tiling; head leaned back, mimicking the other man. 

And somewhere in that silence you find a pen and a napkin in your breast pocket. And that silence is interrupted by the scratching of that pen on that napkin as you scribble down a question. Your writing’s nearly unintelligible; chicken scratch, really, but it’s a question, and you slide it, along with the pen, across the floor. What’s your favorite colour?


	2. Would You Be So Good If You Saw Me Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, first of all, sorry this took so long to get to you. I suck, I know. And I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and have a fantastic New Year!
> 
> Second, thanks to every one who commented/left kudos on the first part of this. It was really wonderful to hear that you all liked it. :) 
> 
> And third, Pete's terrible grammar/problems with capitalization are purposeful, and please let me know if there are any mistakes because I'm too lazy to read it through at the moment. Enjoy!

(Your writing’s nearly unintelligible; chicken scratch, really, but it’s a question, and you slide it, along with the pen, across the floor. /What’s your favourite colour?/) 

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting with your back pressed to the cold wall, or how many times you’ve passed the paper back and forth, but your back is officially broken and it’s getting hard to distinguish what question is being asked and what the answer is. (You very well dissolved into giggles when he supposedly answered your question, /how old are you/, with the answer, /i dont fucking know hemmingway probably/.) The questions range from superficial to deep and more time consuming. You learn about each other, slowly, but pleasantly. His handwriting is atrocious, and his grammar even more so. His name is Pete, and his favourite author is Hemmingway. He writes self-proclaimed shitty poems on the weekends, and spends his weekdays in a cubicle where he has to cover up his many, many (many) tattoos.

You tell him what you’re doing here, and who you are. He doesn’t recognize your name, but when you tell him you’re an artist, he demands to hear you sing. You refuse at first, blushing to the tips of your ears. He refuses to answer any questions after that, shoving away the paper and pretending he can’t hear you. It should be immature and irritating, and you hate yourself for finding it endearing. 

With a huff of mocked irritation, and a mutter of, “You’re mute, not /deaf/,” you rack your brain for something to sing. You decide on a Bowie (of course, why wouldn’t you?) and launch into the first verse: “It’s a god-awful small affair….” You screw your eyes shut, not wanting to see his reaction, not wanting to feel his eyes on you. 

The closed-in bathroom makes for loud acoustics, the sound bouncing off the small space, filling it easily. You finish the song on a quavering note, slipping off of your tongue like a question. 

You open your eyes tentatively and lock them onto his honey coloured ones. He blinks once, before scrambling for the pen and paper. /that’s amazing patrick!!!/ the note reads when it comes back. You flush again; this time rubbing the back of your neck, which you’re sure is bright red at the moment.

Eventually the noise of the party calms down, and a large man comes into the bathroom, barely blinking at your odd set up, telling you that you need to leave. Once you’re outside, the slight but warm breeze weaving its fingers through your hair, you walk Pete to his car. You’re just starting to leave when you notice the seats are pushed back, and there’s a makeshift bed set up. You stop. “Pete, you don’t sleep here, do you?” Pete just looks at you, and you immediately feel sorry for the question. “Okay, no, I’m not gonna let you stay out here Pete, come on. You can stay at my house.” You wrap a hand around his arm, ignoring the slight tingle that runs through your fingers. Pete shakes his head, trying to pull from his grasp, but you send him a look. “Please?” 

Pete sighs before nodding in defeat before letting himself be dragged away from the car.

***

You fumble with the lock on his apartment, before it clicks and you make a happy noise, too tired to form words at the given moment. Pete slouches in exhaustion next to you, leaning against your shoulder. You smile fondly at him, happy to know you’re not the only one, and slip off your shoes. You wait while Pete does the same, stumbling sleepily. 

And, honestly, architects need to be more considerate to sleepy people that have to haul their newfound, mute friend up stairs, while trying very hard not to concentrate on the damp breathing on the back of his neck. The two flights of stairs they are forced to take in your (admittedly too large for one person) house seem to stretch for miles. 

You finally get to the top of the stairs and turn right, leaning your head against the door of your room. You open the door and stagger into your room, setting Pete down on the bed, and taking off your hat. Pete immediately pushes back the blankets and curls into a ball underneath them. You watch him for a few moments before thinking ‘fuck it’ and climbing under the covers with him, switching off the light as you go and curling into a ball with your back to him. 

A few moments later, he turns, pressing himself against your back and his cold nose into your neck. His legs tangle with yours and his arms curl around you. Your eyes drift shut and your sleep addled brain manages to come up with the thought, ‘I could get used to this’ before it drifts off into sleep.

***

The next morning, the sun is shining through the blinds before you wake up, groggily sitting up, taking the blankets with you. You turn to Pete to apologize, but the other side of the bed is empty. Something hits you in the chest, maybe hurt? You go to rub your face before freezing when you see ink on your arms. It’s slightly smudged, but readable:

‘trick,  
have to leave for work but theres fresh coffee in the kitchen. lets see if my words and your music fit together as well as we do 

And below that, seven digits. 

You grin into your pillow as you collapse onto your bed, reminding yourself to thank Joe sometime in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, that's the end! Hope you liked it :)
> 
> Chapter titles just happen to be whatever song/words was/were stuck in my head at the given moment. The first one is from one of my own poems, and the second from Allie, by Patrick Stump on his album Soul Punk.
> 
> Work Title is also by Patrick, from a song called Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers)
> 
> The song Patrick sings is Is There Life On Mars? by David Bowie.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I want to apologize for the odd pov but I wanted to do something a little different. I also changed my mind half way through about who was going to be the musician, so Patrick might seem a bit ooc but that was simply bc I'm lazy and dont want to get anyone to beta this and it was originally going to be Pete. Sorry bout that :/
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read, and maybe drop me a line to let me know if you would like this to be continued?


End file.
